


Silent at Dusk on Earth

by azephirin



Category: Supernatural, Wanted (2008)
Genre: 5000-10000 Words, Alternate Universe - Canon, Bath Sex, Bathing/Washing, Bathtubs, Between Seasons/Series, Bible, Books, Cooking, Crossover, Episode Related, Episode: No Rest for the Wicked, Hell, Impala, Incest, Massachusetts, Mythology - Freeform, Other, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Threesome, Reading, Resurrection, Season/Series 03, Solstice, Threesome, Trauma Recovery, Vermont, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-06 21:05:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azephirin/pseuds/azephirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The paved road takes them only so far. They have to do the rest on their own, and there's no map for this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent at Dusk on Earth

**Author's Note:**

> **Spoilers:** For _Supernatural_, though the end of season 3; for _Wanted_, the entire movie.
> 
> **Author's note:** Many, many thanks to [](http://roguebitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**roguebitch**](http://roguebitch.livejournal.com/) for the beta. Title and cut tag from the song "[Vökuró (Vigil)](http://bjork.com/facts/lyrics/album.php?album=Med%C3%BAlla&era=Bj%C3%B6rk#V%C3%B6kur%C3%B3)," by Björk.

On June 20, 2008, the longest day of the year, Sam Winchester parks his brother's car in a municipal garage in Chicopee, Massachusetts, and walks into hell alone and empty-handed.

Three days later, he walks out. His brother is unconscious in his arms, and two women stumble along by his side, the taller one steadying the shorter one.

Sam tucks Dean into the passenger seat. The shorter woman has passed out, but the taller one manages to get her safely into the backseat before she, too, falls into unconsciousness.

Sam drives.

+||+||+

 

Ruby escaped on her own, a swirl of black smoke that dipped and circled like a flock of birds and then disappeared into the sky. Sam didn't stop her. He drops Bela in front of the ER at Bay State and takes off. Even after everything she's done, he couldn't leave her where he found her in hell—but he's not about to take her with them, either. She'll land on her feet. It's what she does. It will surprise Sam if he never sees her again.

The other woman—taller, slender to the point of gaunt, with longer, lighter hair—opens her eyes with what looks like a struggle. She's a fighter, Sam knows now, and a good one; still, whatever her occupation may have been in her previous life, she was obviously accustomed to humans and not demons. But she fought viciously, ferociously, helping Sam to claw their way back up.

"I'm heading up 91 from here," Sam says, a little awkwardly. It's not like they've had the opportunity to make small talk. "You can come with us to...where we're staying. Or...do you have family? I mean, I'm sure they'd be surprised but...not displeased."

Her full lips twist. "No family," she says.

"I...I can take you with us, then. Unless you want me to drop you somewhere."

Her eyelids fall closed once again. "Don't have anywhere else to go," she says.

+||+||+

 

The cabin is on the side of Burnt Mountain in northern Vermont, near Hectorville, a town so small it barely deserves the title. The cabin belongs to a friend of Bobby's, or an absentee family member—he wasn't very clear, except about the part where Sam should take Dean there, and they should rest. Sam stops at the general store for some basic food and supplies, then does his best to navigate the Impala up the mountain.

The paved road takes them only so far, and then they're on rocky dirt. Sam tightens his hands on the wheel and prays that Dean will stay asleep: This is rural Vermont, and there's no way to the cabin except over unpaved roads, but that sort of logic doesn't apply when it comes to Dean and the car. Sam is mistreating his baby, and that's a terrible crime.

"Not too much farther, sweetheart, almost there, I know you can do it...."

Sam realizes that he's talking to the car, and promptly stops.

The woman still looks unconscious or profoundly asleep, but he could swear he sees her faintly smiling.

+||+||+

 

Dean doesn't wake up at all during the drive to the cabin. Sam doesn't know whether he's relieved or concerned. He parks, picks the lock on the front door, and has a look inside. It's one large room, not much to it: a galley kitchen, a couple of doors that he assumes lead to closets and a bathroom, a sofa, an easy chair, an ancient rabbit-ear television, a dresser, a brass bed in the corner. He'll put Dean and the woman on the bed, he decides—they're in worse shape than he is, and they're too exhausted to object. Sam's too tall for the couch, but it's not like he hasn't slept on the floor before.

He carries Dean in first, takes off his shoes, tucks him into the bed. "W'are we?" Dean manages.

"Vermont. Bobby's cabin. Or, well, whoever's cabin. We'll be safe here." It's just the two of them in the room now, and so Sam lets himself kiss Dean's forehead, his closed eyes, and, finally, his lips.

It's the first time they've kissed in more than a month.

"You're a girl," Dean mutters, but his hand finds Sam's, and Sam slides his other hand into Dean's hair and stands there like that for a few moments, bent over, smelling Dean, here and alive.

He kisses Dean again, then goes back outside to carry the woman in.

He settles her on the bed, but she throws him back with a strong kick to the chest when he tries to unlace her shoe. He holds up his hands. "I'm sorry. Just your shoes."

Her eyes narrow, but she holds up a foot. He removes the black sneaker from it, and she holds up the other, to which he does the same. When nothing further is forthcoming, she seems to relax, then looks over at Dean, who's fast asleep. She raises an eyebrow.

"I'm sorry," Sam says again. There's something about her that can tongue-tie him without her even needing to speak. "It's just...you guys need it. And the cabin—um, well, it's not exactly luxurious. I mean, which you can see. Dean's not going to try anything. He's too tired anyway."

She turns over, with effort, and it occurs to Sam how much she must have had to summon to deliver that kick. Her eyes are closing, but she opens one and says, with surprising clarity, "What's your name?"

"Sam. And that's my brother, Dean."

"Hello, Sam. I'm—" She pauses, then says, "Talitha. My name is Talitha."

It's not her real name, clearly, but Sam's not about to fault anyone for that. "Get some sleep, Talitha," he says, as gently as he can, and her eyes close.

+||+||+

 

Once his brother and the woman are settled, Sam brings everything in from the car, putting the food in the cupboards and refrigerator, unpacking the clean clothes into the dresser, and tucking the dirty ones away on the floor of one of the closets. When that's finished, he puts down salt lines around the cabin, invokes the wards they do wherever they stay. Dean still doesn't wake, but the woman—Talitha—is watching him, not asleep after all. Her expression is frankly curious, but there's little wariness in it, and Sam figures he can explain later—it's fine if she thinks he's a crackpot for now. In the grander scheme of things, it doesn't really matter.

By the time the lines are laid and the rituals complete, the sky outside has grown dark, and Talitha appears to be asleep. Sam brushes his teeth, finds a cleanish pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, and unearths another set of sheets. He's wanted for so long—a month and a half, anyway, though it seemed like an eternity at the time—to lie down next to Dean, settle Dean's head on his chest and run his fingers through Dean's short hair, listen to him breathe—but he can't really do that now. Since Talitha seems to be, finally, asleep, Sam ventures a kiss to Dean's temple, mouthing "I love you" against the skin since Dean isn't awake to object.

Sam checks one last time to make sure that the door is locked, that the wards and lines are in place; then he bundles up on the rug with the sheets wrapped around him.

It's not particularly comfortable, but it's still the best night's sleep he's gotten in a long time.

+||+||+

 

The sound of movement wakes him up in the morning. It's Talitha, making her way into the bathroom, her steps much surer than they were yesterday. He hears the toilet flush; then the shower starts running.

Sam finds the coffeemaker in the back of one of the cupboards, assembles it, and starts it up. This is Dean's cue, and he kicks away the covers, turns over with a groan, and stands up on two unsteady feet.

"That better be coffee, bitch," he says, voice gravelly.

"Sorry," says Sam. "Chamomile tea."

"Bite me." Dean wanders over to stand next to Sam at the counter, shoving in too close so that they're shoulder to shoulder. They stand like that, listening to the coffeemaker percolate, touching but not quite embracing, until the shower stops and Dean bumps his shoulder against Sam's, then steps away, far enough that they could be merely two brothers in a small kitchen.

Sam takes the carton of eggs from the refrigerator, locates a pan, and sets about making breakfast.

"Better be some bacon with that," Dean says.

"In the fridge, lower left-hand drawer," Sam tells him as Talitha comes out of the bathroom, dressed in her clothes from yesterday, rubbing a towel over wet hair.

"I, uh, got you some clothes," Sam says. "At the general store. But I didn't know what your size was." He went shopping with Jessica any number of times, remembers being sent to find various things on racks and shelves, but she was taller than Talitha, slender where this woman is so thin that it makes Sam want to find a way to smooth her edges, feed her until she's softer.

She doesn't seem like the type of person who would appreciate softening.

Sam directs her to the appropriate drawer in the dresser, and she takes out a T-shirt, a pair of jeans, socks, underwear. He felt hideously embarrassed buying undergarments for a woman whose name he didn't even know, but it wasn't as though she'd come out of hell with a packed suitcase. She holds up the jeans, looks at the tag, and says, "They'll be a little big, but they'll do. Thanks. How much do I owe you?"

Sam shakes his head, and she gives him a persistent, irritated look.

"You don't owe me anything," Sam says. "It wasn't my credit card anyway."

Her bark of laughter is unexpected and welcome.

She goes back into the bathroom and comes out wearing the new things. True to her word, the jeans are big, but only by a size or two; Sam figures he could have done worse. The bacon and eggs are ready, and he hands out plates. They sit down, and after a moment's silence spent concentrating on the simple pleasures of breakfast, she says, "I didn't have a chance to ask this before, but I admit I'm curious. Why don't I have any tattoos?" At what must be a perplexed expression on Sam's face, she goes on, "I used to have them all up and down my arms. And I had a scar," she adds tightly, laying her hand on her neck in the spot where it must have been. "Where did they all go?"

"W'ave n'bodies," Dean says through a mouthful of eggs.

"Your table manners are appalling," Talitha tells him, but it sounds merely observational, not accusatory.

Dean swallows and continues. "We have new bodies. Sam and me both had scars from every kind of random-ass supernatural evil you can possibly hunt, and we both had tattoos here." He draws a circle on his chest. "Wards against possession. Then the hellhounds fucked me up good when my time came, so you'd think I'd have some marks from that. But I don't have anything."

"We came out new," Sam says.

"I feel the same." Her voice is low. "I'm still the same age. Until a few minutes ago, I was dressed the same as when I died. That's not possible."

"With all due respect," Dean starts, then he interrupts himself. "You know, I don't even know what your name is."

"Talitha," she tells him.

"Dean," he says, and they shake hands across the table. "Anyway," Dean goes on, "you say that's not possible like my brother didn't just pull you out of hell yesterday. You understand that that's where you were, right?"

"Obviously." Her voice is cool, clipped. "It was not unexpected."

"Sweetheart, in terms of rising from the dead, you're kind of the amateur here."

"And you're a professional?" she says with that same arch precision.

"Most things," Dean answers, "you've got to do them more than three times to be considered a pro, but I'm going to count death in a little bit different category."

"Three times?" she says, her voice slightly less icy.

Dean stands. "I'll tell you the story sometime when there's nothing good on TV." He sets a hand on the table, trying for casual, but it's obviously for balance. "But right now," he continues, "I want a shower so damn bad I can taste it. Sammy, tell me you got me some clothes, too."

"Top drawer of the dresser," Sam says, and stands to go get them, but Dean flaps his hand in an unmistakable _stay there_ motion. It takes him longer than it should to get across the room, and when he does, Sam deliberately doesn't watch as Dean stands by the bureau for a few moments, exhausted and unsteady just from walking those few yards.

When Dean begins the second leg of his trip, this time from the dresser to the bathroom, Sam gets up, too, and starts bringing the breakfast dishes over to the sink. Dean will kill Sam if he tries to help, especially with Talitha here—Sam knows this—but he can't just sit and watch.

Dean makes it into the shower, but there's a lengthy pause before the water goes on. Sam listens for any sounds that don't belong, praying that Dean won't have survived a variety of death sentences only to fall and drown in the bathtub. Sam's pretty sure that his brother will also kill him if Sam goes to check on him; he grits his teeth and starts washing the dishes. Talitha finds a towel and begins drying them and putting them away.

When they're done, she goes back into the main part of the room, finds her shoes, puts them on, and heads for the door.

"You're—uh—are you leaving?" Sam asks. She's carrying nothing, but the weather is mild enough, she's recovered enough, and she's determined enough that he's sure she could get to town, and he's confident that she'd find a way to get somewhere else from there. She doesn't seem the sort to let having nothing stop her.

She shakes her head. "Just going running." Then, with an ingenuous tilt of her head, "Unless you'd like me to go?"

Sam doesn't. It's a surprise, wanting someone here with him and Dean, but she's an odd balancing force, this woman, whoever she is. And she knows, far better than Sam ever will, what Dean went through.

"No," says Sam. "I mean...if you want to stay." He adds, "Are you OK to run?"

"I'll find out, won't I?" she says, and turns, then turns back. She pauses as if gathering words; it's the first time he's seen her unsure of them. "Sam," she starts. "Sam, let me make it clear that I was in hell because I deserved to be there."

"You don't have to explain—" he begins.

"Just let me—let me tell it, okay?" she says, oddly unsure again. "Look, I wound up in hell for a variety of reasons, probably the most inoffensive of which was that I committed suicide and took several other people out with me. I killed a lot of people, many of whom deserved it but many of whom probably didn't, in hindsight. I betrayed someone who was sworn as my brother, and I betrayed someone else, whom I loved. All that said: I did some terrible things in my life, but in hell, I was just average, maybe even a little below average. I was general population; no one paid any more attention to me than they did anyone else. Okay?"

"Okay," says Sam, not sure where she's going with this.

"Your brother was a celebrity. And not in a good way. Every fucking demon in that place knew who he was, and every fucking demon in that place wanted a piece of him. And they got it. I'm recovering more quickly because, by comparison, my experience wasn't that bad. Sam, I just— I can't explain. But the fact that Dean is walking—the fact that Dean is sane, for that matter—it's...it's more than anyone could expect. I'm not saying don't worry, because that's ridiculous. Of course you worry in this situation. But I think he'll be fine. I really do. Just give him some time."

She's out the door before he can reply.

The dishes are done, their few belongings put away. Sam tries the television, which picks up a snowy religious broadcast and the vague shapes of what appears to be some kind of nature program. He turns it off and looks at the bookshelf: Agatha Christie, a few true-crime paperbacks, a Northeast regional birding guide, biographies of a few presidents and Churchill, _Bulfinch's Mythology_. Sam smiles as he remembers reading that in a school library—he can't remember where, just that the walls were a light blue and the chairs uncomfortable, but that could be anywhere. He takes the book and stretches out across the couch with it, legs hanging over the arm, feet nearly touching the floor.

It's the first time he's been able to read, just read a book he likes that doesn't have to do with a case or saving Dean, in a very long time.

He reads quickly and Dean loves his showers, so Sam's at the end of Pyramus and Thisbe when his brother emerges. He's wearing the new T-shirt and jeans, and he looks significantly happier now that he's clean, but he makes his way immediately to the bed and lies down with what sounds like a stifled sound of relief.

Sam puts down the book and goes over to lie next to him.

Dean glares, fidgets with sharp elbows, mumbles, "I don't need you to fucking snuggle me."

"I know that, asshole," Sam says, and slings an arm across Dean's chest.

Sam's pretty sure he hears a grumble of, "Chick-flick moments, man," but Dean rolls onto his back and Sam settles against him like he always has, head tucked underneath Dean's chin (awkward, with their variant heights, but Sam makes it work, has always made it work). Sam's hand draws patterns over Dean's heart, on his ribcage and over his stomach. He's shaking, he knows it, but he can't stop: He's overloaded with Dean, the sharp clean smell of him, the feel of Dean's not-quite-dry skin against Sam's own, the warmth and solidity of his body so endlessly familiar, the steadiness of his breathing, the soft insistence of his pulse underneath Sam's ear.

Sam breathes out a shuddering breath and then realizes, to his horror, that the shudders aren't going away: He's crying, first just some tears and then gasping sobs that he tries to muffle, pulling away from Dean and trying to curl up in the opposite direction; God, Dean will never let him hear the end of this. But instead of mocking, Dean's voice is just concerned: "Hey, Sam. Hey, hey." He pulls at Sam's shoulders, and Sam could resist easily if he wanted to, but the truth is that he doesn't.

He lets it happen, lets Dean stroke his hair and his back, until it's all emptied out of him. Sam can't bring himself to look up at Dean after that outburst, and they just lie there like that for a few minutes.

"Sorry," Sam says after another few minutes. "You shouldn't have to, like, comfort me after—after everything."

"I guess you're allowed a chick-flick moment every once in a while," Dean says as his fingers draw gentle lines up and down Sam's back. "Just don't make it a regular thing."

"Jerk," Sam mutters.

"Bitch," Dean says contentedly.

It's only when Sam wakes again that he realizes he'd been asleep. Dean is warm and close and quiet against him, but Sam can tell by his breathing that he's awake. Sam opens his eyes to see that Talitha is back from her run; she has now taken over the couch, and she has _Bulfinch's_ in hand.

She's there and, it would seem, has been for a while; Dean's wide awake and hasn't moved away even though he and Sam are plainly visible from where she's sitting and, indeed, from anywhere else in the cabin.

Sam files this information away to consider later; then he raises his head to look at Talitha. "How was your run?" he asks.

She shrugs. "I ran."

No further elaboration is forthcoming; Sam wonders whether possibly she hasn't recovered as much as she'd thought.

He nods at the book. "You like that?"

"Is there anybody who doesn't?"

"Where are you in it?" asks Dean, unexpectedly.

"Pygmalion," she says.

"Oh, that's one of the good parts," Dean says, with a nostalgia that perplexes Sam even further. "Even if he is sort of a dumbass. Read it out loud, huh?"

"You've read this?" Sam asks him, surprised.

Dean looks honestly offended. "Dude, who do you think read it to you?"

"I don't remember that." He's not trying to hurt Dean: It's true. He remembers those blue walls, and that uncomfortable chair, and the deep-seated contentment, but he was definitely alone, in a school library (_media center_, he thinks they called it, in the hope of differentiating it from thousands of other rooms full of dusty Dewey-shelved books in similar dusty schools in similar dusty towns).

"Well, you wouldn't have been more than four, maybe five," Dean says with grudging forgiveness. "We were living in this shit town—hell, I don't even know where it was. Oklahoma, maybe. Anyway, they didn't have a real library, just one of those vans that the county sent around every couple of weeks. And pretty much all the van carried were romance novels with dudes in loincloths on the front covers, and biographies that looked really boring, and kids' books that were dumb shit like the Berenstain Bears, which, just, no. So one day this girl gave this to me—she seemed real old, but she was probably maybe twenty-four, twenty-five—and said that her little brother really liked it. So I took it home, figured I'd give it a shot."

The memory is sudden, shocking, and tactile: himself very small, sitting in Dean's lap, with Dean's finger making its way across the pages as his brother sounded out the mythological names. Sam doesn't remember what the story was about, but he remembers feeling warm and comfortable (though he has no idea where this memory might have taken place, or even whether he and Dean were on the floor or something like a sofa); he remembers watching Dean trace the words on the page, wanting so badly to know for himself what they meant, eager for Dean to tell him what happened next.

"Anyway," says Dean, "yeah, I've read it. It was a while ago, but I remember because we ended up staying in that town for a while, and the librarian let me keep the book even when it was overdue, and we read through the entire thing like six times. You used to make me read the monsters chapter over and over."

"Giants, Sphinx, Chimaera, Centaurs, Griffin, and Pygmies," Talitha says at the same time Sam does.

"Okay, you peeked," Dean says.

She shakes her head. "No. I just read this a lot as a kid. That was one of my favorite chapters, though of course I liked the part about Minerva best."

"Read," Dean persists.

She shrugs. "Alright. Where shall I start? Pygmalion?"

"Sure. Since you're already there."

She begins with the text Sam has read probably a hundred times, in countless school libraries, and with Dean, he now knows, before that. Her low alto is modulated, mellifluous—she's clearly educated, and accustomed to being listened to. She reads:  


> _Pygmalion saw so much to blame in women that he came at last to abhor the sex, and resolved to live unmarried. He was a sculptor, and had made with wonderful skill a statue of ivory, so beautiful that no living woman came anywhere near it._

Sam's eyes close as he listens, but he doesn't fall asleep; he's nowhere near sleeping, in fact. She reads for a while, passing through Pygmalion, Venus and Adonis, Apollo and Hyacinthus, then on to the next chapter, and Ceyx and Halcyone. Dean stays awake, too, Sam can tell, even with closed eyes—it's Talitha who falls into sleep, her voice trailing off as she finally rests the book, still open, on her chest. Sam opens his eyes and raises his head to look over at her, and he doesn't think she's faking as she lies there, one hand on the book's spine, the other on her stomach. Her long hair is strewn around her head like a floating cloud, and something in the angle and the light makes the circles under her eyes especially prominent.

Not everything was made new, then.

Sam lies back down and looks at Dean. Dean looks back at him.

It's not a surprise when they kiss.

They move closer. Dean settles a leg over Sam's hip, and they rub together unhurriedly. Sam bites his lip to stifle a gasp, and Dean whispers, grinning, "How quiet can you be?"

"I can be quiet," Sam whispers back.

Dean finds Sam's zipper, rubs the heel of his hand over the shape of Sam's cock through the denim. Sam wants to hiss encouragement, but quiet, they have to be quiet, Talitha is asleep just a few yards away. And while she might have appeared not to blink at their little tableau earlier, the fact is that some snuggles are a lot different from an _in flagrante_ hand job.

Quickly but still silently, Dean unbuttons Sam's jeans, draws the zipper down, and reaches inside Sam's briefs to wrap a hand around his cock. Sam turns his head to press his face into the pillow, stifle his moan. It's good; no matter how Dean touches him, it's good.

Dean's not looking to draw it out, and indeed the pleasure is quick, hot, intense as Dean strokes Sam's shaft, runs his thumb over the slit and—oh, crucially, and Sam almost can't hold back the noise then—rubs that spot underneath the head, the one that has Sam's hips arching forward in a wordless plea for more.

They're kissing when he comes.

He wants to suck Dean off, but they really are a little too visible for that. Dean wipes his hand on Sam's jeans, and Sam would complain, but they're dirty anyway. He murmurs to Dean, "Get in the shower with me."

"I just had one," Dean protests.

God, but Dean's dense sometimes.

"Or the bath," Sam goes on. "You can get in there with me, lie back against me, I'll jerk you off. Suck you, if you want to stand. Do you want that?"

"We both won't fit."

"Let's try it."

They do.

It is a tight fit, but the tub's a decent size. Sam, genuinely, needs a bath after all this; there's no reason for Dean to be in here again, at least no reason other than the fact that Sam wants Dean naked and in his arms. And that's what they do, spend most of the afternoon in the tub while Talitha, presumably, sleeps. Sam makes good on his offer to jerk Dean off; then, a while later, he reminds Dean of his second offer as well, and sucks Dean on his knees, the enamel hard on his joints (but so worth it) as Dean leans back against the tiled wall, fingers buried in Sam's hair, biting back his moans.

They're flushed, smiling, loose as Sam turns off the water and they dry each other. Sam dresses, lets Dean button up his shirt, and kisses him again once they've got all their clothes back on. They lean against the sink and lazily explore each other's mouths in a way for which there hasn't been time in more than a year. Sam pins Dean, hands gentle and demanding as he holds Dean's head in place to kiss him precisely the way he wants to, and their cocks rub together. Even through multiple layers of cloth, satiated as they are, Dean still shivers at the contact and gasps into Sam's mouth.

"You can't get enough of begging me for it, can you?" Sam whispers, kissing the hollow underneath Dean's ear.

"Fuck, why are you doing this to me when we have clean clothes on?"

"Because it's fun," Sam says, and considers opening Dean's jeans and going for it right here; Dean's a little slower to get hard right now, but Sam bets he could get him there.

Then Dean's stomach growls, and they both laugh.

"Yeah, fine, I know where your real affections lie," Sam says.

Dean aims an elbow at his ribs; Sam blocks it, and they open the door quietly in case Talitha's still asleep.

She's not. She's standing at the counter, chopping squash with a quick precision that implies she learned her skill with knives in arenas other than the kitchen.

Sam was really hoping she'd still be asleep.

Her mouth quirks as they make their diffident way across the room. She doesn't seem embarrassed or disapproving, merely amused. Sam can feel himself flushing red; the smell of simmering pasta sauce overcomes any shame on Dean's part, though, and he opens the pot and sniffs the contents luxuriously.

"Did I buy squash?" occurs to Sam. His trip through the general store had been so hurried; he hadn't grabbed much in the way of produce.

"No," Talitha says. "I went into town."

"You walked?" says Sam. She'd seemed pretty tired, and even without that, it's a good ways over mountain roads—climbing back up, especially with groceries, would be exhausting even for a person who didn't just get out of hell one day previous.

"I took the car," she says, so effortlessly casual that a bystander would believe nothing but that she had every right to it.

"You stole my car?" Dean says, outraged.

"The keys were on the table," she says. The _dumbass_ on the end of the sentence doesn't need to be spoken. "I thought I would contribute to the household food stores, and, well. I had to answer the call of nature, and the restroom was occupied." She pauses, entirely for effect. "For a period of hours."

This time Dean blushes, too. She laughs, a cheerful, teasing arpeggio, but stops when she sees the expression on Dean's face. She rests a hand on his cheek for a moment. "Sometime when there's nothing good on television," she says, "I'll tell you where I came from before hell. Maybe then you'll understand why I really don't care whatever is or isn't between the two of you."

"You should," Dean bites out. "Care, I mean. It's wrong."

Sam puts his hands over what feels like a hole in his belly (but he knows it's nothing); he carefully doesn't say anything.

"Yet you keep doing it," Talitha says, her eyes steady on Dean's, "and I don't think it's for the physical aspect. I doubt it ever has been." She pushes the chopped squash off the cutting board and into a bowl, then rinses a zucchini. "There's no shame in loving someone," she says, but now her gaze is squarely on the ingredient in front of her. "At least I don't think so," she adds, and then the cool efficiency of the blade on the wooden board effectively ends the conversation.

+||+||+

 

The sauce is surprisingly good, full of summer vegetables, which Sam has no idea how Talitha paid for. There's nothing of use yet in Dean's wallet; Sam's was in the back pocket of his jeans, and hence locked in the bathroom with him.

He remembers his earlier thought: She's not the kind of person to let having nothing stop her.

Dean manages to twist the rabbit ears on the television so that the two channels come in; a third one pops up, too, semiclearly. They sprawl on the sofa, all three of them, close but not exactly touching, and mock a televangelist for a while; then they watch the second half of a program on polar bears that even Dean finds interesting; then they watch an intermittently fuzzy rerun of _Beverly Hills 90210_. It's terrible, and painfully earnest in its terribleness, and Dean keeps lunging for the dial only to be dragged back to the couch by Sam. He moans in complaint, but doesn't do anything useful like going to wash the supper dishes instead, and they all watch as Brenda faces the dilemma of whether to have sex with her boyfriend on prom night.

Later, after Brenda has resolved her quandary, after the dishes are done, there's another moment of awkwardness: the sleeping arrangements, of course.

Sam wraps himself in his sheet and plops down on the rug. "You guys need the bed more than I do," he says. "Stop being awkward about it and go to sleep."

Talitha takes the oversized T-shirt Sam bought with the rest of her new clothes at the general store—he had to find her _something_ to sleep in—and Dean strips down to undershirt and boxers, per usual. Sam cocoons himself in the sheets and settles in for Vertumnus and Pomona before he goes to sleep.

He hears the bathroom door open again; then Talitha's light footsteps cross the room. She must be standing near the bed, but she doesn't get into it. She says after a moment, "There's room for three."

She's oddly hesitant; her hand rests on the mattress lightly, as if ready to move away in a moment. Dean, already stretched out on his side, looks taken aback, but he doesn't argue. Rather, he shifts a little toward the edge of the bed, making room.

The cabin's interior is perfectly still for a moment.

"Yeah," says Sam. "Okay."

He sleeps soundly that night, dreamlessly. The bed is soft, and they are warm.

**Author's Note:**

> Fox's new name is from [here](http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Mark%205:38-43;&version=31;). In my personal canon, I have this groundless idea that she was a nice Episcopalian (or maybe Presbyterian) girl in the very first part of her very first life.


End file.
